


Haunted

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-29
Updated: 2002-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek mulls over things lost and gained. A bit unconventional, I think.





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Haunted

## Haunted

#### by Marcia Elena

TITLE: Haunted   
AUTHOR: Marcia Elena  
EMAIL:   
KEYWORDS: M/K, first person POV   
SUMMARY: Krycek mulls over things lost and gained. A bit unconventional, I think.  
RATING: R for occasional language and adult situations. SPOILERS: An obvious one, for Terma.   
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek belong to Chris Carter and Fox. All I want is pretend they're mine for a while. Can I, please?  
FEEDBACK: Be honest, but don't be brutal. This is my first venture into M/K and The X-Files in general, and I'd appreciate if you didn't try to rip my guts out. AUTHOR'S NOTES: The 'One arm' thread in the Cubicle set me thinking about some things. This is what happened. A mighty big thank you to the Lou and Lum Secret Beta Society (it's so secret, in fact, that they themselves don't know they're a part of it). I never expected this to be so much fun.   
Ilya, this is all your fault. That's why I'm dedicating it to you. ;-) 

* * *

Haunted  
by Marcia Elena 

Sometimes, late at night, the ghost of my arm comes to visit. 

It only happens when I'm with Mulder. There's something about his warm presence beside me on the bed that seems to bring out all the things I keep hidden away inside me during the day. In fact, I'm surprised there aren't any more of these apparitions manifesting themselves--Mulder and me, we seem to carry a multitude of ghosts between the two us. By all rights, the rooms we share should be crowded. 

The first time it happened, though, I was quite shocked. I woke up in the middle of the night curled up against Mulder's back, my left leg lying on top of his, every inch of my body seeking to touch him even in sleep. Blinking cobwebs out of my eyes, I would've smiled if it weren't for the sight that greeted me: my left arm, translucent as a jellyfish,wrapped around Mulder's torso. I became instantly immobile, my breath stopping in mid-exhale. Literally afraid to move. 

It's a strange thing knowing there's a part of you, a part of your body, that's already dead. One of your limbs, rotting away somewhere, lost and irretrievable. It gives you a whole new perspective on life. 

So, there I was, pressed flush against Mulder, going blue in the face for lack of oxygen. I stayed like that for as long as I could, until finally I had to choose between either letting the rest of me join my arm in ghostly splendor, or facing this thing, whatever that entailed. Needless to say, I chose the latter. 

Sweet breath filling my lungs, I stared at the arm. I think maybe I was daring it to do something. Make the first move, as it were. 

It didn't do anything. It simply lay there, still and silent and so obviously other-worldly that I had to stifle a laugh. I'd heard of phantom limbs, had experienced the phenomenon myself, but this...this was fucking ridiculous. 

Just then Mulder stirred, and I shifted, reflexively. My stump twitched slightly. The ghost arm twitched, too. 

I rotated my shoulder; the arm went with the motion. It was as if the thing truly was attached to me, like my real arm had been. Only this wasn't my real arm; it was a spook, an illusion, something better left in the past, where it belonged. I found myself resenting it. 

Before I could analyze the matter any further, Mulder stirred again. His breathing changed, and a moment later he started turning my way. I could tell he was awake. 

For the second time that night, I froze. What if he could see it? I had no idea what kind of a reaction he'd have to it. I mean, the man deals with weirdness pretty much on a daily basis, but somehow this seemed to go beyond the merely bizarre. 

Mulder's gaze locked on mine. I think he must've caught something there, because next thing I knew he was pulling me closer and asking me if I was all right. 

My throat was dry, and I had to swallow once before I could speak. "Yeah, fine. Everything is good." 

"You sure?" he insisted, his sleep-slurred voice sending a jolt straight into my groin. Only he could sound this sexy while mumbling. "Don't want me to make it better?" 

Oh, Mulder, I groaned inwardly, relaxing into his embrace. But you do...you always do, without even trying. All you have to do is want me. I'm easy that way. 

Aloud, I said, "I'm sure. Go back to sleep." I didn't want to talk about it. How could I? I still remembered the guilt in his eyes the first time he'd seen me, all those months after Tunguska. Only with the guilt there had also been a flicker of satisfaction --a brief one, come and gone so quickly I would've missed it if I hadn't been looking so hard at him, staring daggers into his soul. Ironically, it was that very flicker that ultimately allowed us to put aside all the pent-up anger we were carrying for each other--it was an honest reaction, and I'm grateful that he never tried to deny it. 

Nothing is ever simple with the two of us. It's what makes every moment with him so goddamn precious. 

Mulder must've been more asleep than awake that night, because all of a sudden he was snoring lightly, already reclaimed by the lure of slumberland. I didn't mind at all. 

I watched the arm-thing relentlessly for what seemed like hours, but other than lying draped around Mulder, it still didn't do anything. Somewhere along the line, my eyelids drooped and I fell asleep, too. 

When I woke up in the morning, it was gone. 

* * *

In the following weeks, I half-convinced myself that it had all been a dream. I saw Mulder only once during that time, and our encounter was less than ideal--we found ourselves on opposite sides again, as we're invariably wont to do, and the resentment in his eyes was almost too much for me. 

He really came close to shooting me then, and I knew I'd have to avoid him for a while--we could still fight sometimes, perhaps even more viciously than before, since now we both had such intimate knowledge of each other, and could hurt the other so much more keenly. I wasn't in the mood for pain, and so I decided to give him the space he needed to deal with it. I knew he'd come looking for me when he felt ready. 

Which he did, four days later. 

I couldn't sleep. It was raining outside, heavy drops that seemed to drown everything around in a wall of semi-solid water, making me feel isolated and claustrophobic. 

I almost didn't hear the knock at my door...thought I was imagining it. Wishful thinking is a bitch sometimes. But then the real noise started, manic banging and cursing, and I knew it was him. Who else could it be, at that hour, and in the middle of the freaking storm of the century? Besides, Mulder was the only one who knew I was staying at that particular dump. 

I opened the door, and before I even got a chance to take a look at him he was pushing me against the nearest wall. I hit it with a whoof, all the air escaping from my lungs in a rush. He didn't wait for me to draw more than a single shaky breath, attacking my mouth with such hunger that I immediately felt weak in the knees, my cock coming to life in one blessed instant. 

I parted my lips with a moan, and his tongue was there, hot and demanding, leaving me no choice but to give it back as good as I was getting. And I did, stealing Mulder's breath and pulling him to me with bruising strength, my arm around his neck. His rain-soaked hair trickled rivulets over my face, sending shivers down my spine. Our bodies were pressed so close I became instantly drenched by him, wet as he was. I imagined I could hear steam rising from our clothes as the heat between us surged, wave after wave of pure fire burning us both and making me feel molten...incandescent. 

At some point Mulder started chanting my name, "Alex, Alex...", his voice hushed, his tone reverential, as if reciting a prayer of some kind, yet careful not to let his mouth wander away from mine for more than two seconds at a time, his rock-hard cock grinding incessantly into my own erection. Even through both our pants, it was heaven, and I knew that there was no fucking way I was going to last for much longer if we didn't stop soon. 

With a supreme effort, I managed to push him away from me, hearing him whimper as I did so. 

"Not like this," I said, the words falling from my lips in a raw whisper. 

He understood what I wanted, and his hands came to rest gently on my hips before tugging at my t-shirt and pulling it up and over my head in one swift, graceful motion. He smiled at me, the saddest smile I've ever seen, leaning in to kiss me again. Letting me know just how close he'd really come to killing me four days before. 

I shuddered, as if someone had just walked on my grave, and started fumbling awkwardly with the buttons on his jeans, wanting nothing more than to feel him buried so far up my ass that I wouldn't be able to tell where I ended and he began. 

We didn't say a word as we finished undressing each other, every gesture urgent and tinged by desperation. Mulder didn't ask for an apology, and I didn't offer one. We agreed a long time ago there could be no regretting who we are, since we wouldn't be so inexorably drawn to each other if we were anything other than ourselves. 

Deep down, I suspect we don't know how to live without each other anymore. 

Don't want to find out if I'm right or wrong. 

We had the most intense fuck of our lives that night; every touch, every movement seemed to be amplified by the innate frailty of our situation. We poured all our fears into it, squeezing the sweet out of the bitter and making each drop count. It ached so much that I sobbed his name when I felt him come inside me, and he crushed his mouth to mine as it happened, swallowing my cry and making it his own. 

And through it all, the ghost arm was there, a willing participant in our shared torment. Completely invisible to Mulder. 

* * *

So. That's how it's been since then. I see Mulder, and sooner or later the arm shows up. At first I thought it was creepy, but now I'm kind of used to it. I think I've even come to expect it. 

See, it has nothing to do with me wanting my arm back. This is who I am now, and I refuse to give in to self-pity, or to keep pining for things I know I can never have again. Those are weaknesses, and in my line of work any weakness can get you killed. It's enough already that I've gotten myself so entangled with Mulder that every moment away from him seems dulled, forcing me to make a physical effort to stay alert. 

If anyone ever makes the connection between us, I'll have a real race to win, trying to take them down before they get to either of us. The possibility of failure is not an option I'd care to contemplate. 

No. It's not me being haunted here. Nor is it Mulder. It took me a while to figure it out, but once I did I couldn't understand why it had taken so long for me to realize the truth in the first place: it's the arm that's the haunted one. Wherever the arm is, whatever's left of it, it sort of...dreams about Mulder. About being close to him, and touching him, and holding him. Just like I used to when it was a part of me. 

The night they cut my arm off, I'd been dreaming about him, lying there in the cold ground, covered with a shabby blanket and feeling lonely, not knowing if Mulder had survived the crash, wanting, needing, to find him. Up until the moment they woke me up and I saw the red-hot knife, felt it pierce my skin and cut through flesh and muscle and sinew, heard the bone break with a sickening crack...up until then my worry and my desire for Mulder had been foremost in my mind. 

I think I screamed his name while it was happening, so loud and painful that it's hard to believe he didn't hear it. Because at that moment, it was like the only sound in the world. It might as well have been, as far as I was concerned. And for my arm, it was the last sound in the world. It was still attached to me while the screaming was going on, and somehow I think those last moments were imprinted upon it, so deeply that even distance and its inevitable decay couldn't erase it. 

I know how it sounds, this certainty of mine. But hey, stranger things have happened. One only has to take a look at Mulder and me to see what I mean. 

Lately, whenever Mulder falls asleep, I've been putting my arm--my ghost arm--around him, hugging him to me in an impossible way for an one-armed man. I figured that if I can appease the ghost's longing, maybe someday it'll have the peace it's looking for. 

And sometimes Mulder will move in his sleep, his hand seeking my ghostly one, his fingers entwining with its fingers and remaining clasped together for endless minutes at a time in what has to be the eeriest tableau on the face of the earth. 

So yeah, someday very soon, I think, the ghost will be gone. I get the feeling it's found what it needed--that its yearning is nearly cured. I just...well. Sometimes I wish that, before it leaves, I could feel what it feels, know the roughness of Mulder's palm against my own, the slide of his skin, the brush of his fingertips in the places where he's never touched me before, except perhaps in hatred. I wish I could hold him to me and be completely aware of it, rise and fall with the rhythm of his breath, place my hand upon his chest and let the thumping of his heart reverberate through it until I know it's only sleep that grips him. 

But most of all, I wish I could take him in my arms and keep him there, making a perfect circle around him. Maybe that way I could protect him from all that is to come, and make sure he'll never leave me. 

Doesn't happen often, though, this fantasy of mine. I know these things will never be, and I accept that. Living with the loss is not that hard. Not after this long. 

Especially when what I've gained is so much more than what I've lost. 

**END**

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Marcia Elena 


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